I received a call from my mother claiming that my daughter Valentina was wasting the money I sent her monthly from afar. Furious and disappointed, I traveled to her high school without telling anyone, determined to confront her and set strict boundaries. However, upon arriving at the cafeteria during lunch, the scene left me completely frozen: Valentina wore a faded uniform and was barely eating half a piece of bread with water. Confused, I immediately went to the guidance counselor’s office to demand a detailed explanation about her behavior. It was there that the counselor showed me her school file, and I discovered with horror that my daughter had been officially registered as an extremely poor student for five years. The woman looked at me intently and revealed a terrifying detail proving everything had been coldly planned by my own family behind my back.
The impact of the counselor’s words left me breathless. I felt my head spinning as I looked at that official document stamped by the school. On the application for support for vulnerable students, which justified providing food grants and free uniforms, there was a note that clearly read: “No financial contribution from the father due to abandonment.” Below, in unmistakable handwriting, was my mother Rosario’s signature.
For the past five years, following my wife’s passing, I worked day and night out of town to secure Valentina’s future. On the first day of every month, I made bank transfers of thousands of pesos to my mother’s account, intended exclusively for my daughter’s care, education, clothing, and food. However, Rosario had led Valentina to believe that I had completely forgotten her, that supporting her was a burden to me, and that money never arrived.
I walked with the counselor toward the study hall. Through the window, I saw Valentina open her backpack, pull out the other half of the stale bread she had saved from noon, and soak it in a cup of hot water so she could swallow it. Shame and uncontrollable rage squeezed my chest. When I entered the room, Valentina looked at me with eyes full of fear and took a step back, as if expecting punishment from me.
I knelt in front of her, pulled out my cell phone, and showed her every transfer receipt from the last five years. I showed her each deposit, each note I sent along with money for her birthdays and holidays. Valentina began to tremble as she read the numbers and dates. “Grandma told me you never sent anything and that I was a burden to you,” she whispered, breaking into heartbreaking tears. That was when I discovered that my mother had not only kept all the money for years, but had also altered the last digits of my phone number in my daughter’s cell phone so we could never communicate directly, keeping her cruel deception intact.
